


The Miseducation of Steven Rogers

by Saucery



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attraction, Body Image, Bullying, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Diners, Drama, Loneliness, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Romance, Sassy Steve, Self-Esteem Issues, Size Difference, Size Kink, Slow Build, Soldiers, Teacher-Student Relationship, Teaching, Waiters & Waitresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 22:53:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1445797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve is a teenager that gets bullied but always stands up to his bullies, even if it means getting beaten up. He’s lonely and isolated until he meets his new English teacher, a jaded ex-soldier known as Mr. Barnes, who might just be as lonely as he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Miseducation of Steven Rogers

 

* * *

 

Steve’s used to being picked on. He’s vertically challenged—okay, he’s _tiny_ , as much as he hates to admit it—and he’s got all the strength of an overcooked strand of pasta. His muscle definition is non-existent and his lungs won’t let him run far enough to escape his bullies, which is kind of great, actually, because he isn’t a runner, anyway. He’s a fighter. A dumb, stubborn fighter that insists on getting his ass kicked every single time, instead of doing the sane thing and keeping his ego and his inferiority complex under wraps.

He’s awkward and badly put-together, and some days, he might as well be a puppet made of cardboard and string, no grace or beauty in him, just weakness and clumsiness. And rage. Can’t forget the rage. It’s a sort of churning, futile rage, beating its wings against his ribcage like a feral hawk desperate to free itself, tearing its claws into his heart.

Steve feels better after fighting, the hawk temporarily let out of its cage, even if he’s left humiliated and defeated, his hair sopping from the water of whichever toilet bowl his head’s been shoved into. He’s gotten accustomed to packing shampoo and spare towels in his bag, which means he gets teased when he rushes into class, fifteen minutes late and damp-haired and smelling of his mom’s flowery shampoo. They don’t have enough money to buy Steve his own shampoo.

But it’s not the poverty Steve minds. Poverty isn’t inherent to him; it isn’t a sign of his essential inadequacy. What he _minds_ is his body’s refusal to cooperate with him, its refusal to strengthen regardless of how many laps he runs around the gym or how many weights he lifts. He always ends up twisting an ankle or spraining his back, which gets him sent to the infirmary, which in turn gets him one of Dr. Erskine’s infuriatingly effective pep-talks on inner strength, and how Steve’s inner strength outshines that of his peers.

Inner strength isn’t helping him with the bullying situation, though. Given the indifference of the teachers, perhaps nothing will. Granted, half the reason those bullies are after him is because he interferes when they’re bullying _other_ students, and they’d probably leave him alone if he left them alone. But he can’t. He can’t just stand by and watch some poor kid begging those assholes not to hurt him, or watch a girl getting harassed by some lecherous jock. Before Steve knows it, he’s wading in there, managing to land scarcely two punches before he’s taken down.

Awesome, huh? _So_ heroic. Not.

It’s Steve’s inability to help people that really grates on him. That’s where the rage stems from, although it vanishes like steam on a winter’s day, whenever Mom tends to his cuts and bruises with iodine and cotton bandages and asks him not to do this anymore. “Please, Stevie, don’t get hurt,” she says, and Steve despises himself, because he can’t take care of his own mother, can’t so much as make her happy. She comes home worn out after an exhausting day of cleaning rich folks’ houses, and what does he do? He gives her more to worry about, in addition to paying the rent and buying their groceries.

Steve’s weekend job at the local diner doesn’t do much to assist with those expenses, either, because Mom insists he spend his earnings on school-related items. Textbooks to replace the ones the bullies rip up. Pens and pencils. Protractors. Rulers. Breakable stuff. Steve’s adept at doing complex math in his mind, so he doesn’t require a calculator, thank god. He can’t afford it. Let alone afford it several times over, depending on how often it gets broken.

Steve contemplates what’ll happen if, eventually, _he_ gets broken. He doubts he’ll be able to afford replacing himself. Then again, if he does get the chance to replace himself, he’ll pick a fitter version. Upgrade a few muscle groups. Possibly _all_ his muscle groups.

He’s daydreaming about that on a Saturday, at the creatively named Joe’s Diner, while he’s pouring coffee out for a patron. It’s a middle-aged lady with a cross around her neck, and she strikes Steve as being dejected, so Steve draws a smiley face on her coffee with a bit of cream. It works; she smiles up at him. He smiles back.

It’s simple, but it cheers him up, too. Funny how cheering up goes both ways.

The doorbell tinkles as another customer enters the diner and sits at a table in the corner, where it’s quietest. It’s a broad-shouldered man in a black leather jacket and worn denim jeans, with shoulder-length brown hair and stubble lining a strong jaw. He’s handsome, but it’s a dangerous type of handsome, and he’s got the aura of a rebel not entirely on the right side of the law. Lucky for him, Steve has a policy of not judging people based on their appearances, given how Steve himself doesn’t look the way he _is_.

“Uh, hi,” Steve says, wiping his fingers on his apron and taking out his notepad. “What would you like to order today, sir?”

The stranger doesn’t even bother glancing at the grease-stained menu. He just folds his hands on the table in front of him and meets Steve’s gaze, and Steve’s breath hitches, because those are the most expressive eyes he’s ever seen, steady as a pair of dark blue flames, sad and serious but somehow wild, like the eyes of a lion long since caged, but not quite resigned to captivity. “Give me your standard breakfast. Eggs, bacon, pancakes, the lot.”

Steve blinks. “It’s… four in the afternoon, sir.”

Those uncanny eyes flicker to the clock. “Damn. Sorry. A steak, then? Medium rare.”

Is he all right? He might’ve had too much to drink the night before. “Sure,” Steve says. “With fries and a salad?”

“Sounds great.” There’s a tiredness to the guy, but he still manages to dredge up a smile for Steve, and while it isn’t as open as the smile of the lady Steve’s just served, there’s still a sweetness to it that makes Steve wonder what this man looks like when he laughs. He must look beautiful.

Steve blushes when he realizes what he’s thinking, and stutters a vague reply before hightailing it to the kitchen.

Sam’s in there flipping burgers and shaking the deep-fryer full of fries, and he grins when he catches Steve’s expression. “Is a hot girl out there, or what?”

“Or what,” Steve mutters, and relates the order before heading out to serve the remaining customers. He determinedly doesn’t let his attention wander to Mr. Leather, Denim and Stubble.

Honestly. He doesn’t. It just so happens that he has to pass that table repeatedly while weaving his way across the diner. And it just so happens that at every pass, Steve notices something different about the fellow—from his muddy combat boots to his ridiculously huge hands to the distinct shape of dog-tags under his T-shirt. Ex-military? That would explain… all of it, actually. The biceps bigger than Steve’s calves. The sense of danger. The capacity for violence that thrums through the man, despite his rich, calm voice.

Steve isn’t bitterly jealous, just because he desperately yearns to join the army once he graduates, even if they probably won’t accept him, because his body isn’t anywhere near the artistic masterpiece that this soldier’s is.

It’s not proper, to resent someone else because of his own flaws. It isn’t fair. So Steve frowns at himself and focuses on being grateful to the man for serving their country. _That’s_ the proper response to a soldier. Not this peculiar mixture of attraction and resentment and—and longing. Longing for what, exactly? Does Steve want him or just want to _be_ him?

And, of course, that’s when Steve’s mortal enemy walks in the door.

Johann Schmidt. Captain of the football team.

He has his lackeys with him, a gang of brutes as vicious and cowardly as a pack of hyenas.

Naturally, they scent blood and spot Steve at once. Schmidt zeroes in on him so fast, Steve has to resist the urge to check himself for a homing beacon.

“Well, well, well,” Schmidt drawls, “if it isn’t our servant-boy, doing what he does best. Serving.”

Steve can’t lose this job. He just can’t. He got kicked out of Denny’s for causing a stir when Schmidt showed up there, so he has to force himself to be super-polite. Even to pieces of offal like Schmidt. “Go ahead and choose a table, sir,” Steve says, icily. “I’ll be right there to take your orders.”

“I bet you take all sorts of orders. Do you suck dick when someone orders you to? Guess your pretty mouth’s the only good thing about you, huh?”

What is _wrong_ with Schmidt? Why does he constantly talk about this? It’s almost like he… No. Steve will throw up if Schmidt’s lusting after him. Not that anybody would ever lust after him; Steve must be imagining it. “There are children in this establishment, sir. Please watch your language.”

“Watch my language, he says.” Schmidt gets right into Steve’s space, his breath close and humid and unwelcome. “I’d rather watch you squirm.”

“And I’d rather you didn’t exist,” Steve says, peaceably. “Can’t have everything. How about the booth near the window, sir? It has enough seats for six.”

Schmidt grunts and swaggers to the booth, his sniggering posse following him. If Steve wasn’t such a stickler for decency and professionalism, he’d totally consider spitting in their food.

What happens in the next ten minutes is the sort of disaster he should’ve expected, given the general theme of his life. Just as he finishes writing down their orders—punctuated by bizarre insinuations about Steve’s apparent preference for copulating with well-hung farm animals—and clears away the old plates and glasses that had been on the table, he gets tripped up.

By the foot that the evil bespectacled pipsqueak, Zola, suddenly sticks out.

There’s no hope of stopping his fall. In horrifying slow-motion, he sees the plates slipping out of the neat pile tucked into his elbow, the glasses toppling to the tiles with a deafening crash. Steve’s going to slash himself open on all that shattered glass and china. It’s a train wreck in progress, and Steve closes his eyes before he hits the floor, but—

He never does hit the floor. There’s an arm around his waist, yanking him back against a hard, solid chest.

“Now, now, children,” rumbles the owner of that chest, letting Steve go as soon as Steve’s steady on his feet. God, it’s _that voice_ , it’s— “That was a cruel prank to play, wasn’t it?”

“Stay out of this, asshole,” Schmidt bites out, rising from his seat, stepping out of the booth, his shoes crunching on shards of glass. He shoves Steve in the chest. “It’s obvious this jerk tried to chuck all that on _us_.”

“ _What?_ ” Steve goggles. “Are you kidding me?”

“You gonna deny it, faggot?”

“That’s it.” The ex-soldier frowns. “This ends now.”

“I can handle them,” Steve grits out, flushing with humiliation. He doesn’t need someone else standing up for him.

“Oh?” The man raises an eyebrow. “All of them?”

Steve raises his chin defiantly. “I’ve handled them before.”

Schmidt snickers. “You mean _we’ve_ handled _you_. Say, your mom’s a hell of a MILF; maybe we could ‘handle’ her, too.”

The world goes red. Next thing Steve knows, his fists are clenched in Schmidt’s collar, and Schmidt’s jeering at him.

“Wanna take this outside, Rogers?”

“I’ll show you outside, you—”

“Hey!” The guy reels Steve in and glares at Schmidt. “That’s enough. You’re kids from Ripley High, aren’t you? It’s the only high school nearby.”

“Yeah, so?” Schmidt spits, as Steve struggles to wriggle out of the ex-soldier’s hold. “What’s it to you?”

“The name’s Barnes. Bucky Barnes. I’m going to commence teaching at Ripley, from Monday,” the man says, and Steve’s so startled by the announcement that he stills. “Which means I can get you suspended or expelled for what you’re doing to this kid.”

“Doing to him?” Schmidt splutters. “He started it!”

“Really,” the ex-soldier-turned-teacher deadpans, an edge of menace entering his tone. “Didn’t seem that way to me.”

“I told you I could handle this,” Steve hisses, as Schmidt and his lackeys beat a hasty retreat.

The teacher—Bucky Barnes—chuckles. “You’re a little spitfire, aren’t you?”

“I’m not _little_.”

“No,” Bucky grins, ruffling Steve’s hair, and it’s simultaneously irritating and embarrassing. “You’re clearly a full-grown ass-kicker.”

Steve ducks to avoid Bucky’s hand. It occurs to him that he should probably be thinking of the guy as ‘Mr. Barnes,’ on account of his being a teacher, but he’s so far from what a teacher’s supposed to be that Steve just can’t think of him as anything other than ‘Bucky.’ Also, what’s with that language? Ass-kicker? “Aren’t you supposed to not swear?” Steve mumbles. “As a teacher?”

“Like I said, I don’t start ’til Monday.”

“That doesn’t matter. You’re setting a bad example.” God, why can’t Steve shut _up_? He’s getting himself into trouble!

Bucky stares at him. “Huh,” he says, at last, and studies Steve carefully, as if he hasn’t seen anyone like Steve before. There’s a fondness in his eyes, a warmth that makes Steve’s pulse skip. “Guess teaching won’t be that boring, after all.”

What does that mean? Before Steve can ask, Joe—the portly owner and manager of the premises—sticks his head out of the office at the rear of the diner. “What the heck is going on out there?”

“I just dropped a couple plates, sorry, Joe!” Steve calls out.

“God damn it, Steve! Whatever you dropped comes outta your pay, got it?”

“Got it,” Steve replies, as Joe disappears again. He fidgets nervously as Bucky keeps studying him. “Um. Sorry if I was rude,” Steve says.

“Nah,” Bucky says. “I think I might’ve been ruder than you. Considering.”

“I’ve just got to… I’ll go get a broom. To clean this mess. And I’ll fetch your order.”

“You do that,” Bucky says, low and gentle, and Steve finds it surprisingly difficult to leave him and return to work.

 

* * *

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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